The Perfect Wife. Judy Duarte

put a stop to before the extra weight made her feel as ugly and as worthless as she’d felt as a child.

      In spite of her ability to shove the ego-shattering memories to the back of her mind, where they belonged, the words of her father crept back to haunt her. To whittle away at the perfect life she’d created for herself.

      Damn it, Carly. Are you eating again? You’re going to be as fat as your mother if you’re not careful.

      For cripes sake, girl. Can’t you get a rearview mirror? If you ever need to haul ass, you’ll have to make two trips.

      “Stop it,” she snapped to the chubby child within who refused to grow up and move on.

      She reached for an embroidered linen hand towel, then rubbed at the smeared mascara.

      A fist bam-bam-bammed on the door, something she might not have heard in any other part of the house, and a muffled voice yelled, “Open up, Carly. We know you’re in there.”

      Okay. It wasn’t Greg.

      She nearly slunk back to the den, ready to ignore her guests. But she’d recognized the voice of Molly Jackson, who had a key to the house.

      It wasn’t as though the two of them were best friends. After all, Carly didn’t let people get that close. But when she’d been handed two sets of keys, it had seemed like a good idea to give a spare to a neighbor in case of emergency.

      And Molly, who lived right next door, seemed like a logical choice.

      “I can let myself in,” Molly reminded her. “Come on, Carly. Open up. We’ve been worried about you.”

      The fact that someone in the neighborhood cared was a bit uplifting.

      Carly took a deep breath, then strode to the entry and opened the door, finding Molly and another neighbor, Rebecca Peters, on the porch. Stepping aside and allowing the women into the marble-tiled foyer, she caught the whiff of tropical-scented sunblock as they entered.

      Rebecca, an attractive woman in her late twenties with brown hair and blue eyes, was, as usual, fashionably dressed—even wearing a swimsuit cover-up. “We came to take you to the community pool.”

      “Are you kidding?” Carly, who normally didn’t even head downstairs for breakfast unless she was impeccably groomed, glanced at the front of the man’s blue T-shirt she wore, one of Greg’s that had been in the dryer when she’d demanded he pack his things and get out. “I can’t go anywhere like this.”

      “You look fine for what we’ve got in mind,” Rebecca said.

      “That’s right,” Molly, who sported a white sundress, added. “You’ve been licking your wounds long enough, and we’re taking you with us.”

      Oh, no. Carly wasn’t going out in public. Besides, why should she join them at the community pool? She had a lovely pool of her own, complete with a stone waterfall, an outdoor fireplace, a hot tub, lush green plants and a colorful garden. “If you want to lie in the sun or swim, come on inside. We can spend the afternoon in my backyard.”

      “Not today. You’ve been holed up inside the McMansion for too long, and it’s time to get out into the world again.” Molly, whose long brown, curly hair was swept up in a stylish clip, pointed to the circular stairway. “Go get a towel and a swimsuit and come with us.”

      “I’m not holed up in here,” Carly lied.

      Rebecca, her blue eyes sparkling with determination, crossed her arms. “There’s life after divorce, Carly. And the sooner you accept that the better.”

      “I accept it.” But what she really had trouble accepting was the fact that a month ago, Greg had started dating. And to make matters worse, he was seeing Megan Schumacher, a woman from the neighborhood Carly had once considered a friend.

      It still stung, still hurt.

      And it was so very hard to understand.

      Carly had worked her butt off, trying to make Greg proud of her, trying to be the perfect wife in every way.

      And Megan, a full-figured woman who could stand to lose twenty pounds, wasn’t all that pretty.

      So what did Greg see in her?

      The small voice asked, Better yet, what does Megan have that you don’t?

      For a moment, Carly faltered, her pride taking a direct hit. But she refused to believe there was something in her that might be lacking. Not when she’d tried so hard to be everything a wife should be.

      Maybe her handsome, hardworking, successful ex-husband was going through a midlife crisis, assuming men did that when they turned thirty. Of course, she’d always thought something like that happened a decade or two later in a man’s life, but nothing else explained what had made Greg decide he wanted out of the marriage. Not when Carly had worked so hard to stay in shape, to make him proud of her. To be the perfect wife, the kind of woman he deserved.

      Why, even Greg’s snobby mother, Vanessa, who’d been impossible to please, had begun to accept Carly—sort of. She’d come to Carly’s defense after they’d separated, and tried to convince Greg to go home, to make things work.

      But he hadn’t wanted to.

      “We’re not leaving without you,” Rebecca said as she placed her hands on Carly’s shoulders, then turned her around, pushing her gently but firmly toward the stairs. “Go get your suit and a towel. We’ll wait.”

      Carly would rather finish off that chocolate éclair, even if it was now smooshed by the cushion of the recliner, but she reluctantly did as her neighbors suggested. She wasn’t entirely sure why, though. Maybe because they were right. She had been hiding, licking her wounds. And it was time she got back on track.

      She had a lot going for her. A nice house, a generous divorce settlement. A body that, after she starved herself for a couple of weeks and worked out like a fiend, would soon be back in shape.

      God forbid she keep oinking out on Tasty Dream Donuts. She’d be as big as her mother in no time at all.

      A twinge of guilt reared its head.

      Carly hadn’t meant that in a bad way. She loved her mom and missed her, but the weight the middle-aged woman had been carrying for the past twenty-five years wasn’t healthy and could lead to heart disease or a stroke. It had also kept her housebound.

      Years ago, Carly, her sister and their mom had been close, clinging to each other through difficult times. But they’d all developed eating disorders, although Carly had overcome hers.

      Oh yeah? that pesky, small voice asked. What about that smooshed éclair resting in the paper bag under the cushion of the recliner?

      Okay. So maybe she might not have kicked hers completely. But with Greg gone, she’d rebelled from her rigid daily workouts and those brutal carb and fat restrictions. And to be honest, she was enjoying the temporary break. Maybe a bit too much.

      But she’d get back on track.

      As Carly climbed the circular stairway to her bedroom, she made a mental note to call her mother again this evening. It had been a week, and Carly wanted to check on her, maybe find out if the new diet program, a special study her doctor had encouraged her to take part in, was still working.

      Her mother’s obesity was slowly killing her, the doctor had told her during her last visit. Her knees were giving out on her, her cholesterol and triglycerides were dangerously high.

      But that was something only her mom could do something about.

      Carly had, of course, gone to great lengths not to let history repeat itself. And she wasn’t about to let her eating habits get out of control.

      But she wouldn’t put on a swimsuit without a cover-up, either. Not with the tummy pooch she’d developed over the past month. It had been a long time since she’d been anything but toned and lean. And the thought of having anyone see her imperfections